Zeke's Sword (4)
Lorden's loan shark enforcer captain.
Square-jawed Kutan spat curses inwardly.
'Fuck, did we pick the wrong mark? Why the hell would a noble show up here in person with nothing better to do?'
But he'd never heard the name Zeke Clayman before, and that gave him pause.
The man he served, Lorden, had been scheming for years to build the capital's biggest underworld empire. He'd greased the palms of high nobles and officials, expanding his operations carefully—always targeting those the capital's eyes wouldn't miss, those he could handle with precision.
Abandoned blacksmiths. Powerless commoners. Slaves. Low nobles without connections.
And now, with preparations nearly complete, he was gearing up to absorb rival organizations—stockpiling swords, gathering funds.
In that process, there were names you simply didn't touch.
Kutan racked his brain, running through the list.
No. Even on second thought, "Zeke Clayman" wasn't among them.
He'd never even heard of a Clayman family to begin with.
Which meant the guy in front of him was either some rich commoner or a nameless noble whose disappearance could be swept under the rug by the higher-ups.
In truth, Zeke had only appeared publicly at Lamieli Academy during the entrance ceremony.
And thanks to Dios deliberately downplaying him in the introduction, hardly any nobles there even knew his name.
Unaware of this, Kutan had no choice but to misjudge. Zeke's youthful looks and the ridiculous sight of him holding a baguette only fueled the misunderstanding.
'Just some hotheaded lunatic, huh.'
Yeah, these types popped up now and then.
Foolish idiots overflowing with a sense of justice.
A little roughing up, and they'd be sobbing snot and tears, clinging to your ankles and begging.
'Looks loaded too. Plenty to squeeze out of him.'
Kutan finished his mental calculations and flashed a cruel grin.
"That guy's nothing special!"
"B-Boss, you sure? His clothes look fancy..."
"Don't worry, I'll take responsibility. Just don't kill him."
His henchmen lit up at Kutan's confident declaration.
"Get him!"
They charged at Zeke on cue.
Zeke closed his eyes.
Four burly men barreling toward him, but he felt no threat at all.
For the first time in ages, he savored the heavy weight in his hand.
A bittersweet mix of longing and loathing.
It wasn't a sword.
But just holding something like it sharpened his senses, made the world crystal clear.
Even with eyes shut, he could see them—every motion slow, etched in perfect detail.
He often forgot who he was in daily life.
But moments like this reminded him what a broken mess he truly was.
Feet planted on the ground, yet he always felt adrift, floating.
And it intensified whenever he gripped something in his hand.
He'd once shown Serena a flower as a sword.
But that was mana-infused technique, forced—advanced swordplay to crush her spirit.
A single petal extended like a blade made little difference.
Recalling Serena's charge, Zeke let out a faint chuckle.
Grateful, anew, that she'd embraced and trusted someone so irreparably damaged.
Thump.
Thump.
His pulse quickened, building.
Sip—
Right. It wasn't a sword.
But it could be used like one.
A small difference, but vast.
Zeke suppressed the rising sensations creeping toward his mind.
Lose control here, and he'd cut down everything in sight—friend or foe.
'Hold it together.'
Gulp.
'Basic swordsmanship should be fine.'
Zeke swallowed hard and snapped his eyes open.
'Body test first.'
A massive fist loomed right in front of him.
Whoosh.
Zeke flicked the baguette's tip, nudging the punch aside.
The man whiffed, his fist veering off-course—smashing into the face of the comrade charging behind him.
Crack.
"Gah!"
The struck man clutched his face.
"What the hell?!"
"It wasn't me! That bastard—!"
"Fuck it! Just hit him already!"
The other two closed in, hands reaching for Zeke's face.
But a slight step, and their grabs whistled past his head by a hair.
"Huh?"
Poke. Poke!
Zeke whipped his arm fluidly, jabbing the soft hollows under their Adam's apples precisely.
Light taps, yet they choked, movements freezing.
"Guhk."
"Kk."
They clutched their throats, eyes wobbling as they stared at him.
Zeke scowled inwardly at his body.
Draining the mana left it creaking like rusty hinges.
Sure, it was top-tier for this romance-fantasy world.
But to Zeke, whose standards were sky-high, it was pathetic.
'This damn body—always interfering like a hyperactive kid. Tch. How am I supposed to teach with this? Guess I need to train it too.'
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Zeke swung the baguette-arm like a flail, slapping cheeks left and right.
Each swing landed like on a training dummy—heads snapping wildly.
In truth, his unpredictable sword path left them unable to react.
They shielded faces and staggered back.
"Y-You said he was nothing!"
"What the fuck is this?!"
Zeke watched them blankly.
In seconds, four men rushed him—without laying a finger.
Just one exchange.
They felt the gap, stroking swollen cheeks, flinching.
Kutan watched from afar, unable to track Zeke's arm.
'Shit, fuck. Wrong guy. We're screwed. Big time.'
Survival instinct screamed.
Face paling, he started to bow.
But Zeke spoke first.
"I've got students tomorrow. Still figuring out their level. You'll be my test dummies today."
"W-What?!"
Step.
Step.
As Zeke approached, they flinched back.
His gait seemed leisurely—but faster than expected.
'Power test next.'
Zeke lightly coated the baguette's edge in mana.
Then swung at the first charger with force.
Shiiiing!
Boom!
An explosive crash—no mere bread could make.
The man smashed through the wooden wall, tumbling outside.
'Speed test now.'
Next: the one who'd eaten his buddy's fist.
Zeke kicked off, blurring forward.
The baguette vanished—thrusts multiplying from one to dozens.
Papapapak!
Vitals hammered in an instant.
"Cough!"
He hacked, eyes rolling back, collapsing.
Drool pooled from his mouth.
Seconds later, two down.
Three left, including Kutan.
Reality hit Kutan—no more grabbing or eating now.
'Run while I can?'
But Zeke's eyes said no mercy.
"Knives! Draw knives!"
Kutan yanked a dagger from his coat.
The other two followed.
'These fuckers?'
Zeke had planned minor breaks, beatings—boss was elsewhere anyway.
Then shake them down for Soy's mother's location, rescue her.
'Kids watching, so keeping it PG.'
But knives? Kaal? Kaaaaal?
Veins bulged on Zeke's forehead.
Even a small dagger was lethal.
No spar, no consent—just intent to kill.
Zeke glared, issuing final warning.
"You drew blades before me. Last chance. Sheathe them now."
Heavy pressure and killing intent filled the air.
Their dagger hands trembled violently.
But Kutan shrieked hysterically.
"What're you waiting for?! Attack! Kill him, you idiots! KILL HIM!"
He charged too.
Ignoring the warning, clinging to blades.
This romance world needed fitting justice.
But their fate was sealed.
'Arms and legs gone for life, minimum.'
Zeke's mind coldly planned next.
'Gotta use 'em up. Parrying test this time.'
He assumed a defensive stance.
Baguette tip forward—ready for any angle.
"Die!"
They bit lips, stabbing from three sides.
Ting.
Skreeek!
He parried each blade, twisting his wrist.
Daggers glanced off the baguette's side.
Short blades—not the satisfying long-sword feel.
Zeke tsked inwardly.
Still, gaps galore.
More tests needed—he reset guard.
"Raaah!"
Wild, aimless swings.
Each slid off the baguette's surface.
Simultaneous dual-thrusts clung like magnets, sliding together.
No blade touched Zeke.
Frustrated, Kutan hurled his dagger.
Whirr—swoosh!
Clang!
Zeke whipped the tip—deflecting it back viciously.
Shiiiing!
Thuk!
It pierced Kutan's shoulder, pinning to the wall.
"Gaaaaah!"
Blood soaked his arm.
He clutched the wound, dropping to knees.
'Shoulder stab? Boo-hoo. Then why draw the knife?'
Zeke eyed the rest: keep going?
Clunk.
Clunk.
The other two dropped daggers, hands up.
'Smart. With that skill, you dare blades?'
Soy Spoon covered James's eyes, watching the overwhelming scene from start to finish.
When they first burst in, it would've been a lie to say she hadn't hoped for the swordsmanship instructor.
She'd even glanced at Zeke upon hearing her mother was taken.
But he'd just stared at his baguette.
Just her own foolish expectations from the entrance speech.
She couldn't hide her disappointment.
Of course—he was a noble. No obligation, no ties.
Hadn't he just drawn the line on sword lessons?
Yet he stepped up. After the tea dumped on his face.
'But... wasn't that just 'cause he was pissed?'
Soy furrowed her brow.
Glancing aside, Silia gaped speechlessly.
Her hand-covered brother whined.
"Sis... lemme see...!"
"No..."
No gory sprays—save the square-jaw who stabbed himself.
Just treating her tormentors like kids' playthings.
Thrashing them with the bakery's baguette felt cathartic, but bad for James's moral education.
Soy's heart pounded.
'If I learn the sword, could I...? No, what am I thinking!'
She shook her head, banishing visions of herself swinging baguettes.
Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.
Crisp, resounding slaps.
The instructor battered mercilessly.
Square-jaw, bruised black-and-blue, clung to his ankle, bawling.
'Okay, enough beatings... Ah! Mom!'
Her mother's kidnapping flashed.
"Instructor..."
Smack!
Soy remembered her mom was in their clutches.
Only Zeke could help now.
'But would someone who just got mad go that far...'
Hesitation gripped her. No other way.
She tried calling—but the thrashing continued.
Smack!
"Waaah! Stop, you psycho!"
Smack!
"Ps-Psycho! N-No, I mean, sorry!"
Smack!
"Sorry! So sorry!"
Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Grrk."
"Hoo—."
After a long pummeling, he sighed shallowly, finally stopping.
They were conscious—but bodies and faces a swollen mess.
As Soy opened her mouth again.
He turned first.
"Soy Spoon."
"Y-Yes?! Wha?!"
"I'm going to rescue your mother now."
Soy startled.
Didn't expect him to bring it up first.
'He... forgot? Thought he didn't care...'
Unexpected words from the unlikeliest source—tears welled.
"But I have a request."
"A r-request?"
"Yes. Bring fresh baguettes like this every day to sword class. Oh, and can you make the handle a bit slimmer?"
"Y-Yes! I can! You'll really save Mom?"
"I'd have done it anyway."
Zeke inspected his baguette.
Light mana coat—no scratches from the blades.
Prime weapon.
Inconvenient needing daily replacements—but worth it.
"Uh, um. Okay..."
"And one fresh now. For when I bring your mother back."
"Y-Yes."
"I'll be back before it cools."
Then Zeke kicked the men.
"Get up. You're guiding me."
"Hurts... can't move..."
Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Cough! Yo-You bastard!"
Smack!
"..."
Sensing more beatings ahead, they creakily rose, shuffling out.
Silia finally spoke.
"Soy..."
"Yeah..."
"The instructor... uh... all academy folks like that...?"
"Dunno..."
'Good guy?'
Tears beaded in Soy's eyes, then spotting the shattered wall—sucked them back.
'No, definitely weird...'